The Entrapped

by Chris Bellows

  The ‘private room’ is small and windowless... austere... four chairs about a table, a modest mirror on the wall. Nothing more. I assume the bleakness is part of security. And sure enough, the salesman asks Sergeant Kelly to hang her bag on a wall hook... well out of range of possible legerdemain while examining precious jewelry.

  We are seated. Then he steps out and returns with trays of glimmering gold and diamonds.

  I am giddy. Months ago I would be perplexed... not understanding my reaction. I still don’t fully understand my reaction. But now I accept it. Estrogen!

  Sergeant Kelly holds some of the larger, gaudier baubles to my ear, pointing to the mirror. I begin to once again blush as I admire.

  I look so pretty!

  We take our time. The salesman is patient. Finally there is a pair of interest... to Sergeant Kelly. Long slim, dangling well below the cut of my page boy, diamond encrusted, tiny golden gewgaws decorate the bottom and ring incessantly. Such are annoying... and indeed render the overall design ostentatious.

  “These will do. I like to hear the little girl when she moves about.”

  I pout. I sulk. Sure to be expensive, yet the earrings appear as something drawn from a carnival game of chance.

  “$11,000,” the salesman announces... more of a forewarning.

  Sergeant Kelly nods.

  “Acceptable... and agreed... as long as we can find something more practical for... well she has an intimate need which I believe can be fulfilled by Tiffany’s.”

  The salesman nods, leaving the selected items in plain view on the table while stowing the remaining trays and pushing such aside.

  “Intimate?”

  “I am sure you’ve seen your share of body jewelry over your career.”

  The man somewhat squirms, yet is not completely uncomfortable with the subject matter.

  “There is indeed a propensity of late to pierce and decorate certain anatomical areas which are not generally displayed, yes.”

  “Well, we have a deal on the earrings... I’d like to acquire one more item. And I want it to chime... perhaps more robustly than these,” Sergeant Kelly picking up and shaking my earrings.

  “Yes, I think I have just such an item. Purchased mostly for the treasured family pet... for the collars of dogs and cats.”

  The salesman arises, taking the many trays and leaving behind items he assumes to be sold. When he steps out, Sergeant Kelly smiles, gesturing for me to stand. She removes the bulky cubes of Lucite from my ears.

  “These are mine for now. A trade. I like the idea of carrying your little balls with me.”

  She attaches the new earrings and I smile pridefully. Then I will never cease to be amazed at how quickly I can be brought to nakedness. Remaining seated, her hands reach, grasp my tube bottom at the hips, pull to expand and loosen then draw downward with noted rapidity.

  “Please no... not here.”

  “Step out,” ignoring my plea, the tube bottom encircling my heels.

  I am bottomless and begin to quiver... exposing myself in Tiffany’s!

  “But the man!” I further protest in obeying her command.

  “Yes, he’s a man... and therefore a lecher. On cue, you’ll utter your question... your six words... and I’ll conveniently step out to pay for your jewelry.”

  The salesman returns, closing the door behind him, initially not noticing my nakedness, and the fact that Sergeant Kelly has her pocket knife at the ready.

  “I only have one item that may be appropriate...” his words truncate as he notes I am sans covering from my tube top to my footwear. With my penis attached to my guiche piercing there can be no immediate determination of my sex, despite his intense stare.

  The stunned salesman holds up what can only be described as a small wind chime... a clasp to be clipped to a collar and two hollow cylinders of gold hanging beneath. As he wordlessly hands it to Sergeant Kelly, the tubes clang together raucously... leaving no doubt as to kitty’s presence.

  Sergeant Kelly smiles and nods then twirls her index finger. I know to turn about, displaying my finely shaped effeminate cheeks to the past middle aged salesman. I turn my head to look back over my shoulder. He gawks lustily. Lecher indeed.

  “We’ll see if it fills the need. Bend and spread, Renee.”

  I comply, knowing that the pose not only hints at my anal insertion but also causes the tip of my trapped penis and the small cable tie to pop into view. Sergeant Kelly cuts. I cannot gauge the man’s reaction, his enlightenment as to my former gender. But the silence is meaningful. There is no objection... not with an $11,000 sale at full price.

  “For reasons that may be apparent to you, she prefers to keep this little thing tucked well out of the way... musses the front of her panties... when I allow her to wear such.”

  I feel Sergeant Kelly’s finger gently brushing my penis tip as the clasp replaces the cable tip, reconnecting it to the guiche piercing and trapping my tiny organ between my thighs.

  “Good girl... take a few steps.”

  I do. My earrings sound... high pitched... barely noticeable. But below there is clamor... embarrassing... humiliating... the tubes hang a full two inches below the clasp which entraps.

  “Excellent. Now, I will see the cashier about paying for the earrings. I’d like the chimes adjusted to hang an inch or two lower,” the man nodding with the request, “and Renee will pay for this,” her hand extending to flick my wind chimes. More clamor results.

  With that Sergeant Kelly arises and takes her bag.

  “What are you offering for it, Renee? Make the man an offer,” Sergeant Kelly chides as she opens the door.

  I finally find the words, hearing Sergeant Kelly chuckle as the door closes behind her... “May I suck your penis, Sir?”

  ***

  Part Four

  Fortress Mansion of Pablo Escobar

  Secluded Mountains of Colombia

  “Make arrangements to visit New York, Eduardo. And we’ll need to bring some muscle. You did send that text message two months back.”

  “Of course, leader. And it went through.”

  Pablo Escobar, prompted to viewing the internet posting of the ‘skull fuck’, is concerned. He has advanced funds to the New York agent, received an initial reply and then nothing. Though the advancement is insignificant, he is not one to be taken advantage of... not again... and having received the IP address where the high definition video has been posted, the reminder of the distasteful shakedown irritates... bringing to mind the possibility of more extortion... from Ramona Cortez... from her bulldyke knife wielding companion... perhaps even his New York agent is plotting... having this Renee transsexual under wraps and squeezing him for details as to Escobar’s interest.

  Can no one be trusted?

  ***

  New York, New York

  Renee/Robert Warren

  We stroll 59th Street. I can feel the slime of the most recent coupling trickle down my inner thighs. I trust many Benjamin’s were offered for this latest anal penetration. A flashy coop apartment on 55th Street. Sizable. Worth millions. I was taken doggie style kneeling, gruff hand forcibly pressing my forehead into a thick shaggy carpet. The man became intrigued with my chiming baubles, thrusting away and having fun getting everything, earrings included, to ring in unison. Sergeant Kelly sat in the kitchen, drinking wine and casually conversing with the man’s maid... apparently regularly complicit in her employer’s escapades.

  The task completed with a manly grunt, the maid entered with a warm wet towel as my assailant donned a silk robe. I was denied any offering to cleanse, a smirking Sergeant Kelly following with my tube top and bottom.

  ‘I like the heels thing,’ the man complimented, ‘adds some curious panache to the deed,’ sitting on a barstool as he lit a cigarette, the kneeling maid dutifully dabbing the pubes area offered by his open robe.

  Spoken as I struggled to my feet, the deep shag denying stability to pencil point stiletto pumps, my unsteadiness bringing more rin
ging from earrings and penis clasp. His smile broadened.

  We walk and I am heartened by the darkness. Though the chimes of my penis clasp, dangling between my thighs well below the hem of my tube bottom, draw curious looks, few will see the crusting semen in the dwindling light.

  Strolling west toward my apartment, Sergeant Kelly holds my hand. Over her shoulder is a pocket book, hopefully stuffed with cash, my sodomizer quite satiated and pleased with my performance. I trust he paid well.

  We cross Fifth Avenue, the Park to our right, the street name transforming to Central Park South. Sergeant Kelly’s rote warning comes to mind... from the 65th Street bypass down to Park Central South, you’re in my territory. So pass through with care... and keep your hands... and everything else clean.”

  So I will traverse her territory quite unclean, I ironically think to myself.

  Suddenly a black limousine pulls up beside us... tires screeching. Two swarthy men of size exit with speed. Sergeant Kelly releases my hand as they rapidly approach.

  “Run, Renee, into the park... the bushes... you know where to hide. Run.”

  I do, her voice uncharacteristically urgent... stressed... bringing alarm and the instinct to take flight.

  My heels clip clop... and my baubles chime with resound... I somehow clamor over the low stone wall which delineates the park. The street lighting quickly fades. I duck into a thicket and look back... in shame. The men grab Sergeant Kelly... and as a man I should be protecting her. Yet I am not a man... and protect her with what? I have not the muscle structure of a timid church mouse.

  With my pusillanimousness, I feel rage... yet my reaction is to cry. I curse the hormones.

  Not a robbery, the men take her... and her purse... to the limousine. She does not appear to overly resist.

  ***

  New York, New York

  Sergeant Kelly Rogers

  “A little over dramatic, Escobar. You could just call me.”

  I sit in the back of the limousine facing the world’s most wanted drug czar; a muscled henchman sits to my right another to my left. Next to Escobar is an older man, less physically imposing, of some degree of authority.

  “I have an aversion to phones,” his accented voice hissing.

  “That’s understandable,” I keep my voice calm as the limousine pulls from the curb, the pace much more leisurely.

  Though I am Vice, I am certainly aware of the criminal exploits of Pablo Escobar... as is most of the world.

  “I send you money, I send a photo, send a description. I think I have the right person to help me... she who regularly patrols New York’s most noted park. That’s what the information suggests. And indeed it seems I have the right person... initially... finding the girl in question. Even a photo comes back to confirm... and then nothing.

  “Should I have concerns, Sergeant Rogers? $50,000 is not a lot of money to a man of my means, but it is very bad for business to be swindled. Yet, if you were a swindler you’d be after the $100,000 I promised upon having the girl surrender to me.

  “So you have suddenly found scruples... is that the problem? I assure you the girl is no good. Appearing young, she’s nothing but a hooker... and of considerably more age than she appears. Yet I will take care of her... I assure you.”

  Escobar foments and though he offers little I do not already know, I let him talk.

  The $50,000 advance is nothing. I have earned more than double that in the two months since putting Renee on the streets... into her spandex tubes and teaching her the real money to be earned in prostitution. Tonight alone... $5,000... from a successful television producer who I am quite certain will become a regular. Perverts run that way... like a foodie finding a delectable dish. They eat to excess until they vomit.

  What am I missing... why does Escobar have such strong interest in the transsexual Robert... Renee... Warren?

  In consistently referencing Renee as female, he either does not know of the birth gender of Robert Warren... or he chooses to continue the subterfuge. Yet there is no point in continuing it with me. The text I sent made it clear... referencing Renee as ‘your boy’.

  So, Escobar has either considered my text to be a sloppy typo... or the jumble over Renee vs. Robert is to be continued for the benefit of his cohorts... ala los hombres grandes sitting next to me.

  For me this is about money... has been from day one. Escobar has it... I want it. So I listen to his frustration then go to work... continuing the gender ruse as it seems Escobar would desire.

  “Kidnapping her will be treacherous and cost you money and muscle. You don’t need more heat, Mr. Escobar... neither from the FBI nor politicians using your antics as a catalyst for more drug enforcement and border patrol. She will be missed. People just don’t disappear with no one noticing... not in this country,” my reasoning seeming to calm the venting of frustration.

  A pause. Escobar thinks. He must know that I am aware of Renee vs. Robert. Yet with his cohorts he explicitly uses the female gender. Yes I am missing something... and it is most likely worth more than my $150,000 total stipend. I will test.

  “For the agreed upon $100,000, I will offer all the information needed for you to snatch her. But then what? Lots of time... lots of risk... lots of money getting her out of the country. Suppose... for an additional $200,000... I deliver her to the place of your choice... peacefully... lawfully... without harm to anyone.”

  I am fishing... and gambling... probably somewhat overstating my influence and my ability to produce.

  Still, Escobar does not need this conversation extended. He risks the disclosure of Renee vs. Robert. I am heartened when he bites.

  “$200,000 even.”

  “No... an additional $200,000... added to the $100,000 agreed upon for finding him... rather her.”

  The gender slip is intentional and it works. He hastily agrees.

  “There is a chain of islands off the Colombia coast near Cartagena... Islas Rosario. They are well patrolled... but by Coast Guard on my payroll. Here are instructions and the coordinates,” Escobar handing me a sealed envelope.

  “You deliver the girl,” added emphasis for my benefit, a hissed subtle warning... no more gender flubs.

  I nod. I will miss the steady income provided by Renee’s purse string muscles... mouth and sphincter... but my potential client list dwindles. Some vomit... i.e. tire... more quickly than others. The novelty of the ‘prepubescent’ tube topped Renee will wear. At that time a quick $300,000 will be welcomed.

  The command comes for the driver to pull over. I exit the limo finding myself on Amsterdam Avenue and 70th Street. It is late and a long way from my apartment. Renee’s abode beckons... and I have a key.

  ***

  New York, New York

  Renee/Robert Warren

  It is ironic that I rush through the park... where formerly I leisurely trolled for ‘admirers’. I curse my chimes. I do not want to be noticed. I fear the brutes who snared Sergeant Kelly... Miss Kelly... will want me as well. But with every hurried step, my earrings and my penis clasp announce my presence. People stare. I am attracting the eyeballs I normally desire. But not tonight. I am too frightened and scamper like a scared kitten.

  Knowing the territory, knowing that there are few places where the ominous limousine can cruise the park, I negotiate the many winding paths, offering even more seclusion and cover in the darkness then when I exchanged fellatio for a few Hamilton’s.

  Finally I reach Central Park West, taking the path on which many weeks ago I was led naked and under arrest. Traffic moderately busy, I observe from the bushes. No limousine. I cross and hurry down the dimly lit 63rd Street puffing to reach number 105. As always, with no pockets, Sergeant Kelly not permitting anything more than heels, tube top and tube bottom, I have left my keys in the mail box.

  Looking over my shoulder with concern, I enter the safety of my building, satisfied that no one has followed.

  To the elevator, calming, sighing in safety, the full perception of
my cowardice begins to dawn. A woman was in plight... and I scooted like a skittish sparrow. I could not run and hide fast enough! I am so shamed!

  What to do? I enter my apartment, strip and jump into my bed... quivering under the covers. I cannot muster any mettle. Such has been plucked away by a woman’s hand. And now Sergeant Kelly is gone!.. she who protects... she who provides... she who nurtures this thing of mine.

  ***

  I hear noises at my door. I have not the courage to arise. Have the brutes taken my keys from Sergeant Kelly? Am I next?

  The cowardice resumes. There is no inclination to confront whoever enters. Instead I push my head under the pillow and pull the covers over. Given appropriate tools I would dig and dig in order to hide. I am an ostrich... a ‘possum. But will anyone truly think I am dead? Yet I don’t know what else to do!

  Someone enters the bedroom. I listen for the click of a gun, the unsheathing of a knife. Perhaps I am to be silently garroted. I shake more. Then I hear the rustle of clothing. There comes a quiet laugh and the mattress moves.

  “You’re making the whole bed shake, little girl.”

  I am heartened to hear the voice of Sergeant Kelly, sitting on the bed and speaking softly, as if not to awaken anyone.

  Tears begin to flow again... this time in happiness.

  “I was scared,” the meekness of my own voice bringing disgust.

  “It’s okay. I am here to protect you,” Sergeant Kelly’s voice soothes.

  “But is it not fascinating... they not only took your balls... but your pride... all self esteem as well. You are as timorous as a neurotic cat... have been so nicely transformed into a frightened little girl.”

  The mattress dips again. I hear water running. Sergeant Kelly has moved to the bathroom. She returns and lifts the covers. With my disgrace, my head remains under the pillow. I cannot face her. Then I feel warm wetness about my cheeks. Her touch is soothing... tender... she washes. In my haste I did not take the time to cleanse the remnants of this evening’s coupling.

  “Deep within you enjoyed being with Mr. Depraved TV producer, Renee. It is something ingrained... and you should know, though you’re probably aware, that it is lucrative as well.”